


substitution

by cryptographies



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Altered Mental States, Anal Sex, Breathplay, Canon Disabled Character, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, POV Alternating, Rough Sex, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptographies/pseuds/cryptographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“i’ll kill you if he gets hurt.” it’s becoming his alternative to ‘goodbye’ in their conversations, a scripted farewell. he threatens, ocelot brushes it off, and neither of them ever stray too close to why it is they can’t get along. it always leaves him uneasy.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>even when he's in the coma, they work well together. they just don't <i>like</i> each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1976-80

_**1976** _

“tell me where he is.”

he hates kazuhira miller the second he meets the man in the DC parking lot. he can see even through the dark lenses into miller’s eyes that the feeling is mutual. the man is too controlled by his anger, by his emotions. the sort of man that thinks he is good, morally superior, without once looking at the blood on his hands. deluded. pretty face, empty heart.

“no can do.”

miller has a lousy poker face.  his lip twitches, his hand tightens despite a clear effort to stay impassive. “and why not?”

“because you can’t be trusted.” and _that_ riles him, doesn’t it? “no offence - is it "commander"?” another twitch of anger in the expression. god, he’s enjoying this. he shouldn’t be, knows it’s petty, but he is. there’s something about miller that makes him want to prod and pry and force his way under the man’s skin. “it’s not like i expect you to start putting up billboards with the boss’ location on it, but we can’t rely on you not flipping out and deciding you won’t have him stay somewhere the _major_ knows of.”

and by the silence miller knows that he can’t rely on himself either. “fine. but i want to see him. you can take me there without me knowing, surely.”

“he’s in a coma. a deep one. unresponsive. it’ll be for your benefit only.” he half expects the response to be the sharp ‘fuck you’ that miller so clearly wants to spit in his face, but the man takes a moment to calm himself, a deep breath.

“i know. but i need it.”

he wonders what the hell it is about john that inspires such loyalty. if he knew, he might be able to break the spell over himself. from the look on miller’s face, it’s the same for him too. “fine. let’s take you there.”

 

he wishes ocelot would just _fuck off_ , but somewhere in the back of his mind he understands. he can’t be trusted. he knows he can’t. but how can ocelot be trusted? this is the man who took snake’s eye, who dragged him into the patriots. he’s heard the story. ocelot, by proxy, started this whole fucking mess.

the thickness of the bandages makes him feel sick. “how bad are the wounds to his face?”

ocelot seems distracted, looking at the curtain between snake’s bed and the next. “outside of the two large shrapnel fragments, not that bad. the plastic surgery to repair the damage has been a success, apparently.”

he grits his teeth. “then how bad was the _damage_?”

“lip split apart to the chin. cheek and ear sliced in half. few more. there’ll be scars, but he’s always had those.”

despite himself, kaz thinks of the tapestry of them raised under his fingers and feels an irrational needle of anger prick him. it was probably meant innocently, he presses into his mind, but the vindictive part of him won’t be subdued so easily, and the accusing tone is painfully obvious in his voice. “yeah. after all, he lost an eye and it didn’t even slow him down.”

“sure didn’t.” ocelot is _maddeningly_ cool. “if you’re gonna do a monologue or whatever, you better do it quick. i can’t let you stay much longer.”

“then can i have some _privacy_?”

“sure. roll up your sleeve.”

he does so grudgingly, holds the material back as ocelot uncaps the syringe he draws from the pocket of his coat. the injection is practiced, delivered with a delicate touch and an assured confidence, straight into the bicep. that makes him feel sick too. this ally of snake’s - _his_ , by association - is an unashamed monster, he knows. an _artist_ of nightmares. snake’s life is in this bastard’s hands.

kaz doesn’t look at him, just deliberately turns the chair to the bed and sits down. he listens to the spurs as ocelot goes into the next cubicle, hears the radio turned up and the low humming along. it’ll have to do.

he doesn’t really have much to focus on. closed eyes. one hand held limp, fingers loosely curled. he doesn’t reach for it. it feels like too much of an intrusion.

so do words, at this point. it’s not even that he could be overheard - it’s that he doesn’t know how much of his snake has survived the two spears of metal into his frontal lobe. the man he’d been in love with could be dead. the man who he’d built msf with could be long gone. he’s certainly not even slightly conscious, not even in a state of consciousness where some buried part of him could hear what kaz is saying. he feels foolish for demanding to come. he doesn’t know what he thought he could accomplish.

he sits there for a long while in silence, the sound of the radio in the background blurring together into white noise.

there are tears clinging to his eyelashes, but he refuses to cry. he didn’t when mother base fell. he didn’t when he’d heard snake might not survive. he won’t let himself cry until cipher pays for what it’s done.

“we’ll get them, snake. we’ll take them down.” his own voice sounds strange. “you and me, together. when you wake up.”

and when he wakes up kaz will know if the man he’s holding on to, if the man he admires and adores is even still there. he thinks about brushing a kiss against the scarred knuckles, but thinks better of it. he can wait.

he’s feeling a little drowsy now, ocelot’s sedative. his elbow is digging heavily into the hospital mattress. “ocelot,” he raises his voice over the sound of the radio, looks up. “it’s working.”

the man is singing softly in russian now, over the english words of the song, and his silhouette through the curtain against the morning sun flashes an ‘OK’ with thumb and forefinger before finishing whatever he’s been doing. fussing with the sheets of the sleeping man next door? who knows why.

he takes a last look at the closed eye, thumbs the lashes with a final burst of boldness. turns to watch the hypnotic rise and fall of the ECG until the jingle of the soft steps reaches him. “c’mon, miller, here we go.” a wheelchair. okay.

he stands and sits with a sense of heaviness. drowsiness or grief, he doesn’t know. he wants to scratch and claw at the hand that finds his shoulder, because how fucking dare the bastard touch him, but he can’t.

and the wheelchair ride is strange. he doesn’t like it. he feels helpless. “i’ll...” the sound is so heavy on his tongue. his thoughts are starting to blur a little between languages.

“you’ll?” he hates this man. _hates_. fuck.

“ _daikirai_ ,” he mumbles, poisonous. “i... will kill you... if you let anything happen to him...”

the laugh is soft. “you can try. but he’s safe. i’m the one who’ll protect him.”

“bastard. _thief_.” it’s a herculean effort to keep his eyes open now, even as they roll into the elevator, the doors sliding shut. “i _will_.”

he doesn’t catch what ocelot whispers in his ear. it makes him angry, but he can’t parse the words. just hears the low voice, knows this man thinks he is more important. thinks he has won.

kaz won’t let him win.

  
when he wakes, he’s in his bed. his uncomfortable, cold cot.

there’s a single star of bethlehem flower tucked into the pin on his coat. he crushes it in his hand.

 _fuck_ ocelot.

there's a number on a piece of paper in his pocket, instructions for covert telephone communications, and neither of them mention the visit of the day before as they sit on the phone and work out a ciphering method for written communication.

that, at least, is a small mercy.

 

_**1978** _

when they next meet in person it’s in johannesburg. he’s busy schmoozing investors trying to find territory to bring his phoenix rising from the ashes, and it is a place a soviet spy could reasonably travel for work. he feels ill, as the man sits down opposite him in the dingy cafe. he remembers the fog of the sedative unbidden. it's hot, the height of summer, but there is a chill as he watches ocelot remove his sunglasses.

“i’d rather not use english,” and his pronunciation of the spanish is european but flawless. kaz feels himself rolling his eyes. of course it would be. “is this okay?”

“it’s fine.” he knows his own spanish is decidedly less tone-perfect, but fuck it. he worked hard enough on his american accent, he’s damned if he’s going to drop it now. “how is he?”

“no change from last time. zero visited. _he’s_ dying.”

“good.” he hates the feeling of the pale eyes on his face, the feeling like they can see through the lenses of the aviators as the man takes a long sip of water. “sooner the better.”

“mmm.” the answer is noncommittal. “how are things on your end? your ‘diamond dogs’?”

“still looking for patrons. i’ve heard through some channels that the seychelles could work out.” he doesn’t miss the grimace. “what? socialist utopia, isn’t that right up your alley?”

“nowhere that speaks french is a utopia.” there’s a faint gleam of humour in the colourless gaze and for the briefest of moments kaz does not actually hate the man. _briefly_. “it’s a smart move. lot of potential upheaval. i don’t know how long rené’s government’s gonna last, though.”

“we can move if we have to. i won’t be caught helpless again.”

“and after you get set back up?”

“we take jobs. who knows, might end up working for some would-be former soviet republics.”

that smile is dangerous, he thinks. a curl of lips against the rim of the glass, something like seduction that makes something in him knot in revulsion. “don’t go getting yourself killed before he wakes up, miller. the USSR is doomed, but it has a lot more fight left in it.” ocelot is sharply handsome and all too aware of it. kaz thinks the man would maybe be more tolerable with a broken cheekbone or two. but the longer he thinks on it the more he suspects this act might be deliberate - the long elegant fingers splayed deliberately on the tabletop, the slight incline of the other man’s head, the glances from under pale lashes that pierce to the heart of his anger and jealousy. ocelot is probably doing it to tease, to rile him.

he’s pretty riled, alright. “wouldn’t dream of it. i’d have to hate to call you for help away from... what is it, these days? cracking down on parasitism, now, with the new constitution? or are you still looking for the people who bombed KGB headquarters?”

“who, me? nah. more important things to do. i have people to do the grunt work.” a disinterested wave of one long hand. “i need to. i’m doing the work of around four people as it is.”

“it must be so hard for you.” he can’t keep the sarcasm from his voice, but he thinks it might actually amuse the russian. “don’t smile at me, it makes me uncomfortable.”

“it doesn’t suit you to be so serious, miller.” it’s _definitely_ flirting. something like disgust twists in his stomach.

“excuse me if i’m not exactly _happy_. my best friend is in hospital, my company is in ruins, all of my contacts are busy with their own life or death situations, and my only ally to speak of is _you_.”

another glimmer of humour. “i’m offended. i’m an _excellent_ ally. you realise this is a couple thousand kilometres away from where my itinerary says i am, right?”

“to _him_ , yes. as far as it benefits anyone else, i wouldn’t trust you as far as i can throw you. i’ve heard the stories about you. _major_.”

“probably exaggerated.”

“are you sure?”

and ocelot stands, tall and relaxed, dropping a wad of rand onto the table and doing some ridiculous gesture. “i mean, people don’t usually _live_ to tell the exact truth, so...”

“that i can believe,” he mutters darkly. the bag ocelot has left under the table sits snugly between the wall and kaz’s ankle. secrets for sale, information and names and faces. and maybe, just maybe, a hard copy of the report on snake’s progress. it’s charity, but kaz is not so proud that he will throw away everything he has worked for now. “going so soon?”

“first rule is always to leave them wanting more, right?” the reply is a purposely seductive near-purr.

he doesn’t know what ocelot’s play is, here, but he doesn’t like it. “i doubt there’s any danger of that.”

the laugh is low and dark, too-warm velvet in the dry heat, as ocelot puts his sunglasses back on. “that’s what they all say.”

“i’ll kill you if he gets hurt.” it’s becoming his alternative to ‘goodbye’ in their conversations, a scripted farewell. he threatens, ocelot brushes it off, and neither of them ever stray too close to why it is they can’t get along. it always leaves him uneasy.

“sure you will. try not to get too french in the seychelles. i’ll be so disappointed.” the switch back to english is abrupt, and that damnable fake southern accent is back. “take care, miller.” 

he can’t think of a comeback, but he doesn’t need to. it wouldn’t even make him feel better.

 

**_1979_ **

he knows spending this amount of time by the bedside of a comatose man is a stupid thing to do, but the floor was cleared for zero’s visit and there have been no new long-term additions to the ward. it’s quiet. his only conscious company is the nurse who works this ward, who comes to change out IV fluids or catheters. 

she jumps when she rounds the corner of the partition and sees him in the chair. “oh! forgive me, i didn’t see you.” 

“no problem,” he replies, making no effort to move the heels of his boots from where they rest comfortably on the frame of john’s bed. “i figured if i said anything you’d tip out your tub, all over the other guy.” 

she colours. she finds him attractive, he knows. he sees it in her dilated pupils, on her flushed face and bitten lips. she tries to engage him in conversation and is never disheartened by his polite evasions. he doesn’t do it on purpose, of course, but still. he has no problem with exploiting it. 

“bath time, huh? you want me to go? promise i’ll be good, stay outta your way.” 

“n-no, you’re always good, i mean -” she blushes again. “y-yes, but it might be helpful if you held him on his side for me? i mean, he’s heavy still, so... i mean, just if you would, i understand if it would be... awkward for you. you’re friends, aren’t you?” 

“trust me, i’ve seen him in less. military guys, right?”  and the tiny twist of transgression, of openly admitting he has seen john fully, gloriously naked is something of a thrill. he refrains from telling her of the experience of having that heavy body pressed against him, feverishly hot and demanding and dominating, but he will be thinking of it for the rest of the day. 

for now he simply helps her roll john from side to side to gently cleanse his skin of sweat, of the soft lint of the winter blanket on top of the sheets that leaves wispy blue fibres against john’s white-banded wrist and ocelot’s shirt-cuffs. “he must be a special man, for you to be so devoted to him. you come here very often.” her words are very soft, still burning with embarrassment, but she intends it as a compliment to the two of them. she thinks he is a special man too. 

“he is, yeah. he tends to inspire devotion in most people.” and that is part of why he is not special. given the opportunity, so many others would sit this bedside vigil. EVA. miller. every last surviving ‘soldier without borders’. zero himself, even, were he not slowly dying, betrayed like he has betrayed so many others. 

“how long have you known one another?” 

it would be so simple to lie. so easy. but he doesn’t. “since ‘64. i was only twenty at the time. maybe that’s why he made such a big impression.” that is the best he can do to hold back. impressionable youth is believable. the truth less so - that he had realised his mistake in dismissing this man who wasn’t the boss, that he had been consumed with anger at himself and at the man who had so easily put him on the flat of his back again and again only to realise that the one codenamed naked snake was so unlike the schemers and the warmongers that thoughts of simply _him_ had taken over. that john had haunted his dreams and before long his fantasies. that his loyalties had been cut through like the gordian knot by just the idea that a soldier could be so _real_ , and that the idealised version had been no less compelling than the real man behind it. “been friends ever since.” 

“fifteen years...” she sounds impressed, her voice soft as she fluffs the pillows and gently arranges john on them. “that’s a long time. this must be hard.” 

“it is, sometimes, but he’s tough. he’ll come out of it eventually.” he fondly flicks at the loose collar of the hospital gown, the least intimate of the affectionate gestures he could choose. they are friends. she sees that they are friends. his reptile brain cannot be allowed to run away with him. “he’ll be pissed, though. i don’t think he gets to call me kid if i’m catching up on life lived.” 

she laughs a little at that, smoothes the covers and sets john’s hands in his lap. “even then, he’ll be happy to see you, i’m sure.” 

he doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he lets the autopilot handle it. thoughts of how john will feel are filling up his head, the bile rising in his throat, but the silver tongue works by itself. “he better be, otherwise i’m gonna be the pissed one.” will john be happy? or will he be disappointed? feel betrayed? it’s impossible to know. “just hoping it’s soon, y’know?” 

“i hope so too.” she touches his shoulder and it’s hard not to bat her hand off him but he shoots her a soft smile instead. best not to scare her off. “have a nice afternoon.” 

“you too,” he murmurs as she leaves, waiting for her to leave the room entirely before he touches his fingers to the back of john’s hand, draws his thumb up the warm inside of the still-damp wrist. god, what he wouldn’t do to be able to stop feeling so nauseous over how john will react, to forget the sword of damocles hanging over all of them, but that is like wishing to tilt the earth itself on axis. his feelings have survived fifteen years. 

he hates that, sometimes.

he is a ruin of a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyy so... i don't really post much (any) of what i write so thank you for the click! this is still a work in progress and while i have plans i don't really know how long this'll end up being. bear with me pls


	2. 1981-82

_**1981** _

seriously, _fuck_ the russians and whatever goddamn time zone they rode in on.

“you want to meet _now_?”

the woman in the hotel bed - valerie? victoria? he’s forgotten, he’s flustered - looks thoroughly unimpressed.

“documents from them. i’m in london on layover until tomorrow morning, so unless you wanna come to berlin we have a limited window. i mean, if you’re  _that busy_...” and ocelot, damn him, knows exactly what kaz is in the middle of, and has the gall to say as much, and kaz wants to meet with him now if only to punch the bastard right in the jaw.

“fine, fine. i have a hotel room.” and valectoria or whoever she is looks furious and immediately rolls out of the bed to start putting her clothes back on. all kaz can do is mouth ‘sorry’ at her and be summarily ignored. he gives the address and slams the phone back onto the hook, makes more apologies and gives her a wad of folded notes for cab fare. she simply looks huffy and snatches it, stalking off down the hall in a billow of her long winter coat.

needless to say, kaz has worked himself into a near-frenzy of frustration and annoyance, petty chafing under the scheduling needs of a man who thinks he can walk all over him, by the time the clear rap of knuckles sounds against his door. he can’t help but stomp over and wrench the door open, glowering into the hallway. it’s too bright out there for his eyes, but he suppose the squint will blend into his scowl. “took your time. traffic bad at 1am?”

“nope, i just didn’t really hurry. thought you’d be finishing up.” it’s maddening, the way ocelot steps inside without invitation, brushes snow off his shoulders. “or, maybe you didn’t, given how pissed you seem.”

“hearing me invite another man to my room was more than she signed up for.” he is acutely aware of the contrast between his thrown-on pyjamas and ocelot’s expensive coat and immaculately tailored vest, his ruffled and mussed hair compared to the neat professional cut ocelot’s opted for since south africa, and he can’t decide how he should approach it. probably attack before ocelot does, because that’s almost inevitable. “so what’s your cover here anyway? banker? some other hyper-capitalist?”

“lawyer.”

“the thought of you in any proximity to the justice system is terrifying.”

“i’m in proximity now.” ocelot reaches for the light switch but apparently thinks better of it, setting down his briefcase on the bed instead to open it under what little light there is from the lamp on the nightstand. “i have a badge and everything back home.”

he can’t help but snort. “the KGB do not count as justice _anything_.”

“i’ll give you that one. here.”

kaz takes the folder, notes the codes and file numbers, and then freezes just after he lays eyes on the first page. “this is -”

“legitimate.”

it’s  _cipher_. the same shell corp letterhead, the same signature at the bottom in ridiculous green ink. he can’t read a single word of the code, but -

“transcribed copy in the back, into english and then into russian. it’s for my superiors, so i need it back, but i figured you’d wanna see it.”

and there it is, written in ocelot’s hand, neat block roman letters and tight upright cyrillic cursive. organisational plans. operative assignments. a few informant postings. it’s a fucking goldmine. “how the hell did you even -”

“zero might not be in control any more, but most of his operatives don’t know that. not even the ones who know me as a cipher agent. this is the most recent communiqué. went into effect a month ago, but most of the assignments are long-term. deep cover.”

he is struck with an appreciation that it must have been an incredibly dangerous thing to do, sneaking out cipher documents on a basis of luck, charm and guesswork, and as he looks at ocelot lean lazily against the wall and examine the container of vaseline he’s picked up from the nightstand, kaz feels a bizarre jolt of clarity. it wouldn’t be worth taking if it were only for the soviets, he knows that, knows that ocelot’s loyalty to his country runs deceptively shallow. and if not for  _them_ , then -

“you got this for me.”

“the idea was for you to take it, but i had to call in a  _komitet_ asset to get out of the country. i had to confirm i had it with me, and i don’t have the resources to make a proper copy without flashing the ink before i get back to moscow. even now, the layover here is so i could speak to an “informant” to verify. i can make a copy for you to use, but it'll take a while.”

his gratitude lasts a matter of seconds before it gives way to suspicion. “ _why_? you could have gone indefinitely without breaking cover within cipher. they’re going to know, now. you’ve sacrificed it for  _what_ , exactly?”

“time’s right.” ocelot smirks, like it’s the most obvious thing, like the suspicion is nothing more than an undeserved minor inconvenience. “your diamond dogs are capable of small strikes. do it surgically and you’ll be able to take out key operatives. you’ll throw their network into chaos for a year or more while they move operatives, move funds, liquidate assets. you get a little taste of revenge, and john gets more of a reprieve.”

kaz frowns harder, the same way he always does when that name slips out of ocelot. nobody else calls him that, his mind snipes at him, not even zero. why is that? why does a creature of as much guile as ocelot occasionally forget that? his suspicion, his distaste, must show on his face, but mercifully it’s not the topic of snake that ocelot settles upon in reply.

“i’m not using you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” it might have been. kaz will run with that. “not this time, anyway -” and the bastard _grins_ when kaz bristles, tossing the vaseline onto the bed with a flick of his wrist, “and it benefits all of us. besides, don’t you get bored of just fantasising about petty revenge?” it’s delivered in that low, seductive silvery tone that ocelot uses when he wants to be especially annoying and normally kaz wouldn’t fall for it but he’s frustrated, damn it, he’d been about to get laid - had _felt_ like getting laid, for once - and it’s one ten in the morning and fucking ocelot, he swears to _god_ , he’s had _enough_ of this fucking man.

“it’s none of your business what i fantasise about, you piece of shit.” the retort is so sharp it scrapes his throat, makes him regret snapping for a fraction of a second until he can cough and continue right on with the tirade. “i owe you for the intel, yeah, but if you’re expecting me to put up with your childish innuendo for a second longer than i have to after you dragged me out of bed with someone else to listen to it, then you are _mistaken_.” he isn’t even surprised by the venom in his own voice, the way his body rises on autopilot to step into ocelot’s personal space. “whatever your _petty_ little power play is, ocelot, you can take it and -”

he doesn’t get any further because there’s a gloved hand fisted in his t-shirt and he’s being yanked forward into a bruising, _vicious_ kiss. he’s off-balance and he’s outraged and his hand flies instinctively to the nape of the man’s neck, to grasp a handful of hair, and the idea is to  _yank_ hard and stop this but that signal gets lost somewhere from his brain to his hand. his feet are roughly kicked apart and the knee shoved between his legs is to lever him backwards onto the bed so hard the bedframe creaks ominously but there’s a gloved hand wrapping around the base of his throat and teeth in his lower lip and the sudden pressure behind his eyes makes his vision blur worse than usual. he’s pinned.

“it’s cute that you think you scare me,” comes the whisper against his lips, and the anger swells again at the flippancy of it but then ocelot’s mouth is against his neck, teeth scraping the pulse point, and all thought of retaliation is impossible. “let me tell you, miller, i don’t need power plays, because i could _make_ you into whatever i wanted and you wouldn’t even know how twisted you were ‘til i  _let_ you know.”

that shouldn’t make the arousal flare low in his spine. it is, he decides, pretty fucked up that it does. “fuck you. _you_ don’t scare  _me_ either.”

“don’t i? thought you were smarter than that, miller.” the bite makes him cry out, teeth hard enough into the side of his neck that he feels the canines sink into his flesh, drag across his skin. kaz dully realises that there’s a hand pressing up under the shirt, gloved still, spreading across his hip and grasping and pulling up, and he feels the firm press of ocelot’s thigh against his dick as the threat it is. “little disrespectful, don’t you think?”

kaz’s response is to lash out, and the angle is all wrong but his left hand connects with ocelot’s jaw with enough force that it gives him his opening regardless. he flips them over, ignores the catch of ocelot’s belt buckle against his bared stomach as he shifts up to be able to lock his thighs either side of the russian’s hips, leans forward to grasp ocelot’s wrists and twist them, pin them with tendons taut to make freedom difficult. “i don’t give a shit if i hurt your feelings,” he growls, and he can feel his heart hammering in his chest, the adrenaline singing in his veins, the glorious sting of the bites still fresh on his throat. “stop fucking playing with me.”

“playing, huh?” the smirk on the slightly reddened lips is maddening. ocelot looks ruffled, yes, shirt collar askew and hair mussed, but he’s completely composed. the pale skin isn’t even flushed, apart from the red mark under his chin. “you want me to get serious?” the tone is heavy with promise, dark and soft and sinister.

“you did this just to fuck with me.”

a low laugh. it makes the anger flare enough that kaz puts more pressure on ocelot’s hyperextended wrists, feels the strain of the sinew underneath, and that earns a sharp intake of breath. “no, i did it because i’m free until 0700 and the idea was to _fuck you_ , not so much fuck _with_ you.”

kaz feels another leap of arousal in his gut, feels the burning warmth starting to settle into something with purpose. “ _really_.” he aims for sceptical, but his voice is a little raspy and he thinks it sounds a little too turned-on to be taken seriously.

“mmm.” and there is a predatory gleam in those eyes. kaz recognises it, knows it from his encounters with snake, and come to think of it other things are familiar now too - the grasp of his hip to reinforce the pressure on his groin, the brutal kisses, and he wonders just how many of those similarities are things they’ve learned from one another and oh god he doesn’t want to think about this any more -

his distraction lets ocelot free his hands and yank kaz down to thoroughly savage his mouth. “stop thinking about him,” ocelot whispers harshly and kaz doesn’t know if it’s out of one kind of jealousy or another, but he really is turned on, now, and there’s a hand pinching at the skin of his hip, grazing back to slide fingers under his pyjama pants, and the novel texture of the leather gloves squeezing his ass is enough to make him groan. “stop wallowing and take what’s in front of you.”

“fuck you,” he gasps, but what he means is ‘fuck _me_ ’ and ocelot is so very good at reading between the lines, because the world flips and kaz is on his back again, the waistband of his pants pulled down to his thighs and a hand spread flat on his stomach. he feels more exposed than he ever has in his life, like his every weakness is written across his face. he knows somehow that if he tells ocelot to stop then he will - having something like that on him would be a coup, would be something ocelot could hold over him for as long as they’re forced to work together. but he doesn’t.

“how do you like to take it?” there’s a trace of gravel in the russian’s voice, the first indication that ocelot might be getting something other than a sense of superiority out of this.

“like this. hard. r-rough. a lot of... hands.” he doesn’t know why his voice shakes, but the admission only contributes to his arousal. not even the assumption that he’s going to be the receptive party dents it.

“lights?”

“off.”

a low noise of acknowledgement. “i won’t feel like he does.”

“don’t care. better with the lights off anyway.” he pants. “feels better.”

ocelot gets off him abruptly, straightens and starts to shed layers of clothing. coat, scarf, vest. the gloves stay on until the very end, before being peeled off and dropped too. “tactile, huh?” the smirk is filthy as ocelot moves for the bedside lamp. the soft click is deafeningly loud in the following silence, kaz’s head filled up with the sound of his own breathing, the sensation of the thin pyjama pants being yanked the rest of the way off.

“guess so -” and he’s being kissed again, hungrily, like he’s being devoured, pressed down into the mattress like prey. he can’t help the moan that tears itself from his throat any more than he can stop the pulse that pounds in his ears. he wants more, craves it.

the hand that wraps around his throat should be a threat, a sinister prelude to a violent end, but it squeezes just enough to make drawing breath an effort, thumb fitting into the hollow of his neck, and his nerves sing. the other hand moves down, torturous, slow. warm.

he couldn’t mistake this for snake if he tried. ocelot is leaner, taller, cleverer in his positions and his touches without being as physically powerful or intense. lets his hands wander but stays on task like there is some clear objective, a plan to all this. the hand at kaz’s throat slides up to thumb his lips, to pull his hair, withdraws for just a moment and returns to dig blunt nails into his neck. he feels like there are more people touching him than just this one, warm palm smoothing across his hip and thigh and long fingers grabbing handfuls of his ass again. he’d always found sex with snake overwhelming, but this is just as good. there’s little passion in it, outside of their mutual enmity, but he wouldn’t want there to be anything else. it's safer this way.

ocelot doesn't ask about preparation but that's fine, because he knows where the vaseline is and he reads kaz's gasps like an expert. the fingers breach him confidently but not harshly and twist slowly, pressing one fingertip and then two up into the white-hot core of him. he can feel himself shaking, trembling with pent-up need.

"just  _fuck_ me," he demands, and for once ocelot gives him what he wants.

he finds he welcomes the vicegrip at the base of his throat, the teeth in his shoulder, the short nails biting into the flesh of his thigh. the bed moves under them and the world jolts and kaz feels like the fever is consuming him, embers in the pit of his stomach burning and destroying everything they touch. this is wrong. he disgusts himself.

" _harder_ ," he urges, sliding a hand between them to touch his own skin, slide his fingertips down over his stomach to palm himself. "fuck, more."

"i'd be careful with all that cussing if i were you, miller," comes the dangerous whisper in his ear. “might start thinkin’ you’re enjoying yourself.”

he starts to retort and then the words are slammed out of him, a raw shout that takes him by surprise and makes him shut his eyes tight against the assault of pleasure, and that’s when the palm starts sliding up. “what are y-”

ocelot is squeezing. not tight enough for the one-handed grip to cut off kaz’s air, but his thumb and index finger are perfectly aligned with both carotid pulse points and even the imperfect pressure makes his vision swim and his temples feel tight. this is how to put a man under when you have him at your mercy. kaz’s right hand is trapped between them and when he struggles and reaches his left for ocelot’s hand, that one is caught and pinned too with ocelot's whole weight, unfaltering leverage.

kaz's dick twitches against his palm, against ocelot’s stomach. he’s so overwhelmed, so painfully turned on and angry and he will _fucking kill this man_ -

“c’mon,” comes the urging against the corner of his jaw, followed by a nip of the skin, a laugh, and kaz is damned if he’s going to admit even to himself that it chases another thrill of pleasure, of danger down his spine to his dick. “you take cock like a _champ_ , miller, you look incredible... right on the edge of letting yourself go, and you just hang on there...”

and he shivers, arches up and forces his hips down for more, because he’s far gone enough that the only way to keep his dignity is to own this. “then make me,” he hisses, and his head aches with the pressure of the chokehold. “can’t come if you’re still playing at littlest dominatrix, give me _somethi_ -”

he doesn’t even finish the word before the savage squeeze of his throat, the nails raking his skin, the blood drawn from his shoulder by sharp teeth and _fuck_ , the snap of the hips against his, the heat of their skin, and it feels so incredible - the pleasure, the pain, the feeling of  _release_ that he’s been numb to for so long, he can’t help but come against his hand and stomach with a broken cry. he shudders, he arches, he pulls against the hand on his wrist. he _writhes_ in the aftershocks, feeling his nerves sing as ocelot licks the blood from his skin in soft, kittenish laps and rocks forward leisurely. the world is white, scintillating orbs that hurt his eyes and hurt his head and flicker with the frequency of the buzzing he can feel at the base of his skull. kaz is dizzy with it, the static sizzling in his lizard brain, the thick air that he gulps in warmed by their bodies.

“jesus,” he pants, squirming, sensitive and spent as the other man finishes with a quiet moan, bloodied lips against kaz’s neck. “they teach that in GRU?”

“maybe.” another lick. “you telling me the JSDF don’t?”

“fuck you.”

ocelot pulls out, pulls back, stretches with a strange sort of grace before he slides off the bed. he looks down at kaz in the dark with a strange sort of expression, part admiration and part cool detachment. “i mean it. you look good like that. _debauched_.”

kaz pushes the hair out of his face, just lying back. he is past shame, if not disgust at himself, and to find modesty now with his t-shirt wet with his own come, with ocelot's leaking a little from his ass and vaseline wet on the backs of his thighs, it'd be past pathetic. "filthy, more like."

"that too." the click is loud and harsh as the lamp is switched on, ocelot taking the few steps to the mirror to check his lips for blood. he licks them clean as he turns around. "that too. suits you better than the weird fascist boyband thing you usually have going on." and then, calmly, he starts getting dressed. kaz is not sure why this irks him.

"maybe i'll meet clients like this, then." he manages to force himself out of bed and upright, barging past ocelot on the way to the en-suite. despite himself, he stops and looks at his reflection while he wets the cloth to clean himself up - he does look good. hair ruffled, pupils still dilated, lips full and red to match the flush on his cheeks and collarbones. and the bites and bruises, they're exquisite, already starting to purple. the one on his shoulder is especially perfect. he can see the mark of each individual tooth.

"if i have time," ocelot is saying, raising his voice above the clink of his belt buckle, "i can make a copy on my journey over and pass it to a contact in berlin. but that has risks. i can't arrive with a copy and after that i'd have to steal the original out of the intel lockup in the lubyanka after i arrive."

"so you want me to wait. how long?" the shirt is a lost cause, he decides, so he discards it onto the bathroom floor. the water on the cloth is warm but not too hot, and it feels incredible on his skin. "you said it yourself, the faster we act on it the better we throw them off the scent."

"it can wait a week or two."

and he's angry again. everything out of ocelot's mouth is considered, deliberate, tailored to the situation as it stands. fucker is only ever in it for himself. "you are a real piece of work."

"so they tell me," is the response. he's fully dressed now, not a single hair out of place, every inch his cover again and not some treacherous, toxic creature in a man's shape. "keep the network updated with where you are. i'll encode it the usual way."

before kaz can raise his voice from his throat the door is open, closed. ocelot is gone.

he feels used.

to his credit, ocelot lasts until the hotel lobby before he starts laughing.

 

_**1982** _

miller is avoiding meeting in person now. he understands why, even if he finds it childish. he imagines the man indulging in some sort of belief of being preyed upon, violated - it fits with miller's victim act, his outstanding moral dissonance.

ocelot admires it, he thinks. maybe. he's never really  _had_ morals, but it seems exhausting. more exhausting than this, definitely, the second copy of the report he's preparing for the diamond dogs on soviet logistics in afghanistan. he encodes it straight to paper as fluently as any other language. he likes to imagine the pf commander squinting at the pages, handwriting the decryption. it pleases him, in a sort of... well, _childish_ way.

the machinery is slowly spinning up. v is ready for activation when he's needed, the architecture of his false psyche built and ready for the doors to be thrown open. it is himself he works on now, with altered states through drugs or hypnosis. his triggers are coded. it will be the work of an hour to put himself under for the final application, and from then...

well, he doesn't know.

he worries it could make him a different person. to remember the depth of his devotion will be too risky, but at the same time it is too strong to repress. he has settled for applying some sort of past tense to his future self - with john's departure from the patriots, with his relationship with miller, that is where this false ocelot's love will have died. his romantic love, at any rate. even the cheap copy will have his undying loyalty.

the end of the paragraph is a good place to put his pen down, take a rest. their code is unique, known only to himself and miller - polyalphabetic substitution from a scrambled tableau of their own design. it's not enigma, but it's complex enough that it's fit for purpose. created together, not long after their introduction, with miller still snarling at every step, but he is proud of it. they work well together, even if it is difficult.

he knows that is as much his own fault as miller's. he wants to understand the sort of man miller is, and the easiest way is to force gaps in the man's guard through base instincts. anger, jealousy, lust. and he doesn't pretend that he isn't intrigued by the fact this man knew john for a year and ended up in his bed when it took ocelot the better part of six.

he may call miller petty, but it doesn't mean he can't recognise it in himself.

he slides the papers beneath the dossier he's supposed to be translating as he hears the bureau chief's office door open.

it makes no difference to him if kazuhira miller refuses to see him. all he cares about, in the end, is that john is safe.


	3. 1984 - trigger

_**1984** _

he is on the final leg of the usual journey to dhekelia when he finds the slip tucked into the dead drop at larnaca. he almost drops his bag. it's dated yesterday.

_he's awake._

he feels like he can't breathe. he has trouble for the whole drive, has difficulty concentrating on the road, almost fumbles the ID when the young british soldier asks for it.

the nurse with the crush has her crush no longer - the engagement ring appeared on her finger a year or two ago, and now with her wedding band to match it she is a maternal beacon of warmth on the ward. she spots him on her way down the corridor, and the arm she reaches to him is like the interceding hand of some saint. "you came."

"is he really-?" the words tumble out of him in a rush. he isn't sure what he even means to ask.

"he's awoken, yes. let me walk you there."

when they arrive, his chest feels tight with anticipation. the room is as it always is - bright, airy, their copy asleep in the bed across from the door. but for the first time there is movement beyond the curtain, the sound of fabric shifting and small gruff noises of annoyance and god, ocelot thinks, this is it.

"don't tell me you're already getting into trouble," he says, sounding more confident than he feels, and the silhouette stills.

"come here," an unmistakeable order, and he would lay himself at john's feet if he asked, but he's self-conscious as he rounds the corner. he has watched john age these nine years, but who knows if he's even recognisable any more.

he looks good. god, he looks so much better than he has any right to, not after being so deathly still for so long. sharp, with that piercing sense of knowing in that single eye, and ocelot feels exposed as the gaze trails him up and down. he acutely feels his age, the need to touch the crows' feet at the corner of his eyes, and he still doesn't know if john will even _know_ him but he feels the slow creep of shame and doesn't know _why_.

"... they tell me it's been a long time, adam."

his real name sends an electric jolt through him, an explosion of relief in his chest. "a _very_ long time. pretty inconsiderate if you ask me. could almost say you kept-" the loud groan from john cuts him off and he has to laugh, duck his head and muffle the sound into his scarf and keep it to himself. "what, not funny any more?"

"your sense of humour always was ridiculous."

he might be imagining the fond tone, but he might not. he hopes not. "how are you feeling?"

there's a considering pause. "i've felt worse. little weak-"

"that'll be the atrophy."

"mmm. memory of the accident's a little fuzzy. i need a smoke."

he laughs again. he can't help it, nervously hovering at the foot of the bed. "you're telling me nicotine withdrawal lasts through a nine year coma?"

"no."

and just like that, ocelot feels the smile fade from his lips. the warmth, the excitement of the awakening is quickly fading, and he feels cold. "... john. i'm prepared to brief you, if you're up to it. you've missed a lot." there's more, and it's difficult to force himself to say it, but if there is one person in the world he will always be honest, john is that person. "the situation now is complicated, you've never really been out of danger, and there had to be... compromises. some of the insurance policies we set up, you might not like, but there's no going back."

and john leans back in the bed,  effortlessly commanding. "then brief me."

 

he gets the message from one of his men.

“and all they said was to tell you ‘v has come to’, sir. said you’d know what that meant.”

like he could forget. he nods, carries on loading magazines. he could drop everything and contact them, demand to see him, but he has work to do.

he stops a few minutes later, tips the frames of his sunglasses down, because surely it can’t be so dark so early in the day, but -

“soldier.”

“yes, sir?”

“was there supposed to be mist today?”

 

the click of the receiver as he puts it down feels like it’s too loud. v is asleep again, sedated, but he worries about disturbing the man with every word, every breath. he feels responsible for v. certainly he is responsible for destroying him, remaking him in a new image, moulding him, but beneath the surgery and scars this is a man, not a legend.

just a man. so fragile.

“boss,” he murmurs as he comes back into the room, tentative. he hasn’t spoken john’s name in days, has been trying to forget the shape of it on his tongue. “we may have to move ahead of schedule. miller has been taken captive. they know you’re awake. we have... maybe 48 hours, but i think they’ll move tomorrow night. i can have everything ready by then.”

the boss has a roll of bandages in his hands, looking pensive. this confinement doesn’t suit him, and the waiting is wearing on him, making a caged tiger of him. “how will they come at us?”

he is struck by the lack of inquiry as to miller, but he lets none of it show. “probably a small insertion team to begin with. if they have to run you down they’ll have to neutralise the entire hospital, and i doubt they want the extra legwork.” the implication hands in the air.

big boss is thinking, turning the bandages in his fingers. “you want to burn the hospital. sacrifice the patients for a distraction.”

“it’s the best chance for you to get out. take out the insertion team and use the chaos as cover to escape. steal a vehicle out front, make your way to exfil, i’ll take v and you can... go.” it hurts to say it.

“then we burn it.” and he shouldn’t agree to it so readily, certainly wouldn’t have when ocelot knew him - truly knew him, before zero’s ambition and treachery had forced him from big boss’ side - but the clear blue eye’s gaze is steady. it will be scorched earth.

he hesitates for a moment. “what about miller?”

and for a long, dreadful moment he thinks the response is going to be ‘what _about_ miller’ because in this moment he half expects the man to be left for dead. “how long does he have?”

he thinks for a bit, has to weigh it in his head. “i’m not sure what they’re even doing to him. from what preliminary intel suggests... not that long. just under two weeks, maybe, until he breaks. he’s tough. it’ll be finding him that’s the hard part.”

the vivid blue eye is fixed on him, looking at his face. examining him, and ocelot replays his own words in his head to try and find the stumbling point. has he made a mistake by commenting on miller? he hasn’t mentioned his visit to miller’s london hotel but wonders if big boss _knows_ anyway. he doesn’t feel guilt, but he wonders if he is supposed to confess his sins, ask to be absolved.

“... boss?” he prompts, voice soft.

“nail down a position.” firm, final. “send v. he’ll do it.”

“yes, boss.” he wants to say that that will take too long, that to take v to afghanistan will be the work of a week at least, but the boss knows all of this. he is just willing to take that risk.

the silence hangs between them. something is wrong, he knows. something is different. his boss isn’t lying to him any more, and the honesty is making him uncomfortable.

“adam.”

he comes closer, bends towards the beckoning hand, and closes his eyes to receive the kiss. it is nothing more than dry lips, parted, brushing against his own, but it feels like the world moves. he knows, intellectually, that he's being manipulated. but this is _j_ \- no, big boss, and he would do anything for this man. he has never pretended otherwise.

“leave the RV location when you go. don’t let me down.”

the strong hand spreads against his shoulder, pushes him back into a standing position, and the warmth of it burns through his shirt. “yes, boss.”

in a few days, he won’t even remember this.

he’s kind of glad.

 

loading venom onto their whaler, he almost immediately excuses himself to his cramped below-deck quarters. if he does not do this now, he will never have the heart for it. he opens his small bag, opens the paperback, and sits down. he hates this book, and that's why he chose it.

the idea of thoughtcrime has always strayed too uncomfortably close to his truth.

 

ocelot spends much of the ship journey keeping to himself, allowing the boss his space despite the bone-deep joy he feels.

he's back. he's really back.

 

he's losing track of time. they come in and it's dark. they pull the mask back over his head and it's dark. they take him outside and it is blinding bright enough to make him cry out. they take and take and take, until all he has left is the blood that seeps and oozes through the bandages over the infected, raw wounds, and he is so weak. he has given up hope of rescue. given up hope entirely. he is not good enough for hope. all that is left to him is a slow death.

he has so many regrets.

when he hears the commotion, he thinks he's finally snapped. nobody is coming for him, nobody could save him even if they tried, but _god_ the lights are bright, and there's a hand on his shoulder and he can't breathe through the dust and blood and it feels like there's something in his chest, squeezing, because even his sun-scorched eyes, the blur of their clouding lenses, it's _him_ so alive and real and

it's a blur. he's babbling, he's practically raving, begging to be brought back to reality because it feels like he's trapped in a nightmare and this will all shatter

and of course they are still in danger, the inhuman furies come to drag him, drag them both back to hell, but they outrun the mist. the drum of the blackfoot's rotors is like a flight of angels. the wingbeats of avenging seraphim, the army of his saviour.

and there _will_ be vengeance.


	4. 1984 - enigma

this is getting old, now, and it's only been two days since miller got out of the infirmary. "so you're telling me you can get into the shower and dressed by yourself, then." it had been a surprise to watch the wrecked body helped out of the helicopter, to realise the extent of the torture, but ocelot is not given to extensive sympathy and it’s clear miller doesn’t want it. what he _is_ is practical, however, and with miller as the only one of them who knows how to run the numbers of diamond dogs he is not interested in arguments. he knows what this sort of thing does to a man, especially in the face of self-imposed isolation. they can't afford to find miller with a bullet in his skull or his own belt wrapped round his neck.

"i don't want my own private pity party." venomous, bristling, still so proud when he has lost so much. some would call miller brave, but ocelot prefers 'delusional'.

these past few weeks, it seems like all the men do is whisper about how sad it is, about how commander miller seems like a ruin of his old self, but ocelot disagrees. even now, kazuhira miller is fiercely proud, standing on a single crutch, wounds still raw from where diamond dogs' surgeons have trimmed and stapled muscle and skin, bound clean caps of bandage over the limbs that aren't there. the crude brace for the leg prosthetic, the barest metal frame, must rub the delicate, damaged stump raw and yet miller just grits his teeth and bears it.

it's ridiculous. ocelot's never particularly liked the idea of martyrs.

"yeah, but unless you wanna spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair in your pyjamas, you have to accept help. your men are loyal, it's not like they're gonna giggle about it behind your back." talk about how much they pity him, certainly, but he is respected.

"no," miller snaps, and ocelot just throws up his hands and leaves.

best to let miller think he has won. that way, he'll drop his guard.

 

he doesn’t pretend that he feels anything other than smug satisfaction when he lets himself into miller’s quarters the next morning at what could charitably be termed the crack of dawn and rouses him. not even the shoe thrown (badly, entirely off-target) at his head dents it, and as he kneels to fasten on the simple foot prosthesis he can’t help but meet miller’s irked gaze, draw his fingertips down the back of the man's calf to prove how little the injuries faze him. he can’t help but tease, with such a vulnerable target laid open this way.

“see? this isn’t so bad, is it?” he plays up the acquired drawl, lets it meander through the vowels in the exact way he knows annoys the man most. “it’ll be like nobody even knows you’re a useless cripple.”

miller kicks him, hard, in the ribs, and he _completely_ deserves it, but he laughs anyway, and miller tries not to look satisfied.

_worth it ._

 

 

it's different between them now.

he hates it.

snake treats him like he's broken. more broken than in the way kaz embraces, his new perspective on the world, the rose-tinted glasses cast aside - no, it's more insidious than that. the gentleness makes him feel fragile, like he's spun from glass, and it's a feeling he fights every step of the way.

but snake is not a man you can fight and win against.

the kisses are soft against his skin, languid, warm. the single blue eye looks up into his face between slow closes, the palm of the remaining hand warm on his hip. the prosthesis is more tentative, fingertips on the edge of the mattress, and kaz is losing his patience.

"you can touch me with it," he murmurs, voice still rasping from drills earlier. it's not the situation doing it, anyway, because even with snake's mouth on his thigh he's stuck in his head, unable to be in the moment.

just... stuck.

snake's expression is soft. "i don't want to hurt you with it."

 _what if i want you to_ , he doesn't say, and reaches for it. he realises too late that he tries this with his right hand, the one undoubtedly picked clean by vultures and buried in the afghan sand, and he feels like an idiot for a sharp jolt of a moment. phantom limb, he reminds himself, just closing his eyes and taking a breath. his face is hot. embarrassment, anger, shame.

"kaz?" the gentle concern is a beautiful colour to snake's voice, but it's alien. unfamiliar. he doesn't want to dwell on it. he lifts his hand, his remaining hand, to reach across his lap. the metal is cool around the wrist joint, the fingertips moreso as he sets them on his leg.

"you won't hurt me." snake looks unconvinced and he doesn't want to look at it, the uncertainty in his face, so kaz reaches down and grabs a handful of dark hair and pulls snake up on his knees to bring their faces level, their mouths into alignment. it doesn't suit a man titled big boss to be on his knees like this, not even at the feet of a lover, and he murmurs "come here," as enticingly as he can and tries to put out of his mind how much it feels like manipulation.

it is not manipulative enough, because as much as he urges it he cannot force the man to be rougher, to thrust harder, and it's not enough to bring him off. even the blowjob between apologetic lips is not as it should be, as much as he tries to use the fingers tangled in snake's hair to ask for  _more, more,_ and he tells himself it's just the memory interference of the shrapnel. he kisses his own taste out of snake's mouth and that, at least, satisfies in its filthiness, the grazes of teeth and licks and pants until they could probably go again. but they don't, and for that kaz is somewhat thankful.

they curl together to sleep with the prosthesis slung heavy over kaz's waist, and he absently rubs his fingertips across the joints and crevasses as the fatigue settles in closer. he aches for this man, would bleed for him. won’t call it love, but he _knows_. and yet this is the first thing this evening that feels right, good, snake’s warm mass a comfort rather than a riddle.

they used to understand each other. they used to be so in harmony they might as well have been two halves of the same whole. the part of him that rages every waking moment against cipher, against the powers that would not let them be, mourns the way things were and feeds on that pain too. but right now, kaz is tired. he’s so, so tired and nothing feels like it will be the same and he hopes, prays that the revenge he craves will soothe this part of him. he doesn’t know how else to fix it.

a lot has changed, he guesses.

 

 

he realises about a month after he takes up semi-permanent residence at mother base that he's losing time. only a few hours, here and there, but things don't add up. he finds dossiers signed off with a signature he doesn't remember giving, finds things moved on his desk and in his quarters. he does consider that he might be under aggressive surveillance, that his repeated opposition to miller's stupid idea of the week might have been cause to investigate him for sabotage, but it has too much finesse for anyone in the intel unit.

the boss, maybe, but he wants to believe the boss trusts him.

ocelot is, for the first time in a long while, unsure of what to do next.

he settles for setting bugs in his own office, his own quarters, and trying to keep to a schedule on mother base. a closed environment is easier to monitor. he checks them every time he realises he can't remember what he was just doing.

"are you alright, sir?" the comms officer on duty in the early hours is a good man, competent and hardworking and respectful, but even he cannot help questioning the third visit in as many days. "you seem... i dunno. worried about something."

he opts for a smirk, a charming brush-off. "always, bison. they ever ask you to take any kind of command, you tell them no."

the laugh is polite. "will do, sir."

 

he can't find anything.


	5. 1984 - kindred

 "what the hell do you mean, 'you don't see the point'?"

there aren't words for it stronger than 'fury', but he wishes there were so he could express just how... ugh, _furious_ the flippancy makes him.

"i meant what i said, miller. just think about it for a second." he's five seconds away from taking the crutch to ocelot's face to wipe off the patronising look. "the boss says she can just pass through restraints. she could walk out of any cell we put her in. we could drug her, but that'd take pretty much every drop of sedative on the base to keep her under. she stays in the cell off under medical because we made her comfortable, but if she decides she doesn’t wanna be there any more..."

"then why is she even here?" he can hear his own voice growing louder, angrier, but there's a strange layer of distance to it like he's listening to a recording of himself. "just kill her and be done with it!"

they have had this argument so many times already. the skull woman has been on-base for three days, and every time kaz thinks he has found a way to lock her up and throw away the key ocelot thwarts him. he's on her _side_ , even, and it is a betrayal of the mission of diamond dogs too far. he can expect no more of a traitor, but it angers him every time.

ocelot's voice has dropped into soothing, appeasing, even as he dusts off his most underhanded argument. "that's not what the boss wants."

"fuck what he wants!" he can't help snapping, taking a clumsy step forward to get in ocelot's face, pretending he doesn't feel like he's just blasphemed. "his call was _wrong._ he brought an _assassin_ back to the base. she's not more important than our men."

and he doesn't expect the thoughtful silence, the way ocelot's eyes fix on the horizon behind him. he isn't saying anything, just considering, and kaz knows it for the ill omen that it is.

" _what?_ " he demands.

"are the men more important than the mission?"

their eyes meet and kaz is struck with a chill, a cold touch behind his ribs. it hurts to draw breath. there is an electric grip on him. "what is that supposed to mean?" he knows what it means. he just doesn't want to say the words. he doesn't want to answer.

the eye contact is uncomfortable, intense. "if she could take you to skull face, miller," and his voice is painfully soft, conspiratorial, "if she could even make it slightly easier for you to get that man in front of the barrel of your gun, how much would you sacrifice?"

his lips form the word of their own volition. it's given no voice, but they both know.

_everything._

 

"i think i convinced him," he murmurs as he walks past the cell on his way to collect the drugs from the medical storerooms, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her lift her head to look up at him. this is the first time he has spoken directly to her, rather than just _about_ her to miller or the boss or the small gang of msf old hands demanding they be allowed to take their pound of flesh, but he has not been subtle in his advocacy.

they are kindred spirits, really. beaten, broken to the saddle of big boss' will, loyal without knowing why. he thinks she sees it in him too, her wariness ever so slightly less when she sees him standing there.

on his way back - exhausted physically but impossibly stimulated mentally, aching to shower away the smell of blood and bleach and sweat and relieve some of the thrumming arousal in his throat, chest, spine - the hum catches his attention. she beckons from beneath the mesh, and his feet carry him down the stairs.

the wind whistles through the reinforced mesh roof, blows his hair around his face and pulls at the end of his scarf as he comes to stand in front of her.

it strikes him how young she is, how defiant, her jaw set and her hands wrapped in fists around the bars. she demands to meet his eyes, look into his face, and he lets her.

he lets her see him, sweat on his brow and flush on his cheeks, for who he really is.

her face softens after a moment. the incline of her head is minute. she holds out her palm, looks from it to him.

slowly, he raises one of his own hands, copies her gesture, and she touches her gloved fingertip to the sensitive centre of his palm scrubbed pink with granular soap, takes a moment before she draws it in a circle, drags back through it in a score without lifting it. a zero. cipher. her eyes are questioning.

"i used to be. i helped found it."

she pauses a moment, traces the characters k-o-t against - no, к-о-т, against his skin, and he can't help the little smile as she waves with her other hand.

"you're good."

her answering smile says 'obviously', and he decides then and there that his hunch to defend her from miller's ire was objectively correct. "and you're alright with 'quiet'?”

a nod, closing her eyes a moment. she's withdrawn her hand, lets her fingers loosely dangle over the linking bar, but the understanding from those few moments is as solid as if she's spoken. 'i've heard of you, nice to meet you.'

he must be going soft if that's all it takes to earn his affection these days.

 

the tension is gnawing at him.

every moment that finds them alone together, he wants to let it all spill out of him. the confessions, the questions, but to allow himself to be so vulnerable wounds him. even the desire hurts, makes him burn with shame and disgust, and he hates how intensely he _feels_.

"stop."

kaz registers too late that he has let slip the word he's only been thinking about saying, because the tall figure is turning from the shelves so slowly, so ominously, and -

"... what is it?"

damn ocelot. he probably knows already. it's far too early in the morning for this, but he will never get out of this now, especially not while he's sitting on the edge of his bed waiting for help with the false foot. "... have you noticed snake seeming... different, after the coma?"

he wonders if he's struck a nerve when ocelot frowns, stares at the wall for a few seconds, but then he's back all of a sudden. "my last reference point is a couple years earlier than yours. last time i'd seen him before the hospital was '72."

he may be sleep-addled, but he recognises the non-answer for what it is. "does he?"

"maybe." ocelot walks slowly towards the bed, spurs clinking. "but nearly dying like that changes a man. you know that better than most."

"not like this. it ruins you." the weight of the pale gaze on him is unbearable. he wants to tell ocelot how snake is in the dark, how he must _know_ that’s not how things used to go, but it’s too much. too raw a topic. for both of them.

ocelot kneels, looks at his hands as they open clasps, and kaz finds himself unable to avert his eyes as he usually does. he can’t shake the feeling that they are -

“he ruined both of us, i think.” the man’s voice is so soft, so quiet that kaz thinks he has imagined it at first, but ocelot is avoiding his eyes in a way that makes him sure. he wonders if they have spent so long purposely wounding one another that they share some twisted kind of empathy. there is something, something that hangs in the air between them and twists through the space like smoke, but he can’t identify it.

 _i think so too_ , he doesn’t say, _and i’m afraid i’ll end up like you have_. he feels it acutely sometimes, in the way ocelot’s guard slips sometimes when snake is in the room, holding his gaze, giving ocelot his full attention - the longing, the abandonment. he cannot think of anything more painful. “maybe,” he says instead, and looks at the wall.

the silence is thick. tense.

“you said it yourself,” and he’s standing now, finished, turning for the door. “all of us have our phantoms.”

the door shuts quietly behind him, and kaz just palms his face, covers his eyes.

snake will arrive soon, will make his rendezvous with emmerich in afghanistan. he should make his way to ops to be there, on the line, to play the devil on snake’s shoulder that demands blood.

it is who he is, now.

 

huey emmerich is a pathetic creature.

kaz thinks they’re done, after their report to snake, but he realises he’s underestimated ocelot. in this warehouse, dimly lit, bathed in blood red, he finally sees the dreaded shalashaska at work. the thing that alarms him as that he’s not as disgusted as he expected to be.

emmerich has been righted from his position on the floor, set back into a seated position, and he sobs and gasps as ocelot murmurs into his ear. the viewing room’s microphone catches little more than the low thrum of the syllables, but the intention is clear.

it is like watching a seduction, he thinks, to see the gloved hands trail down emmerich’s arms, the lips so close to his face. the syringes, even, needles deep into veins and the slow tip of emmerich’s head backwards, the halting cry. the eyes behind his glasses are unfocused, glassy, and kaz feels the suspicion creeping back up in his chest.

he is not quiet of step any more, not even slightly, but he doesn’t care to be. the deliberate metallic clang of the crutch against the table leg is testament to that.

when ocelot turns, approaches to speak with him, he is as intense as kaz has ever seen him. his pupils are wide in the gloom, and the red light casts long shadows over the angles of the features, but his lips are bitten, parted.

kaz is immediately reminded of his mistake in london, years ago.

“what are you giving him?” he asks, voice low and firm. “because i know truth serum, and that’s not it.”

the smirk is conspiratorial. “it isn’t.” ocelot produces the empty vial, shows him the handwritten label. he squints to read it in the dark, tipping his head back a little to bring the letters into focus, and something something chemical numbers -

“morphine?” that's the only thing he can pick out in the scrawl.

“almost.”

 _almost ._ “jesus christ.” he looks back at emmerich, slack in his exoskeleton, face shining with sweat. eyes half-closed, still, chest rising and falling slowly. “you’re insane.”

“i’m smart.” the words are a purr. “you’ve made it obvious what you think of him. if he’s as bad as you say, making him dependent will put him on a leash. if he thinks i’m the only one on base that he can trust to take care of him...”

he’s magnetic like this, kaz thinks dimly. wicked and treacherous and cruel. his breath sticks a little in his chest. “then you’ll be the first to know if he’s thinking of betraying us again.”

“exactly. before even he does.” ocelot is so close, now, the barest distance between them, their mouths, and his arousal is obvious in the blown black of his eyes, the tongue wetting his lips. it’s sick.

it’s magnificent.

“then do what you have to.” he’s whispering. the desire is a betrayal of everything he wants and loves, but he feels it keenly, like a moth to flame. “the boss can’t know. kaz realises the instant he says it that it’s a stupid thing to say, that ocelot will tell snake everything if he is asked, if he even feels slightly like undermining him, and -

“he won’t.”

he believes it. it’s impossibly hot in here, and he knows he has to go _right now_ or he’ll say or do something he regrets, but it is so hard to move from this single spot. kaz feels pinned.

“good,” he mumbles stupidly, and turns. “keep me appraised. i’ll be in my office.”

he imagines the clink of spurs behind him the whole way.

 

he isn’t imagining it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm quite sure my ideas about Shalashaska Brand Truth Opiates™ is heavily influenced by LotusRox's  
> [Only If You Ride The Tide](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4943767), and if you haven't read that you really should because _dang son_.


	6. 1984 - fire

miller makes sure to walk past his quarters. that's not an invitation he's about to turn down.

 

they crash through the door, miller off-balance, ocelot doing his best to keep the man upright as they burst backwards into the room and into the wall. his elbows strike the wall hard, the crutch bounces painfully against his shin as it falls to the floor, but all he can think of is the heat crawling under his skin.

he wants to be objective about this, but that has gone out of the window, and he is tugging miller’s tie with fingers clutching at his hair and he thinks he might be losing control. that is dangerous, but the precipice is racing up to meet him and he wants to forget something he can’t even remember.

“please,” he gasps, and his scarf is on the floor already, his belt yanked open with a deft right-left of miller’s hand and he doesn’t know, doesn’t care what will come of this, because he needs the relief as an addict does. the need pounds in his ears. the only thing that matters is the rush of the work, the adrenaline of control, laying himself open to dig deep into someone else, and now all he can do is abandon himself.

"bed," miller growls, and he obliges. he _wants_. miller is on top of him, mouth hot at his jaw, heavy on his chest with his hand busy forcing down the zipper of his pants. he wants to surrender, to be overcome, to have _something_ to draw a boundary between this fever and the baseline regularity that he tries so hard to embody. he moans at the touch against his skin and whatever hope he had of getting out of this without being compromised is gone.

kazuhira miller sucks cock like he has something to prove. maybe he does. also like he’s a world expert on the subject, which, again, he might be, but ocelot isn't fussy, especially when he’s riding high on opening up huey emmerich’s fears and putting hands on the beating heart of him, so -

“ _bozhe moĭ,_ ” he feels himself gasp, and this has always felt like an out-of-body experience, grounded only by the honesty of pain, the tether of control. he hopes for the former. it is what he’s always liked, since before he even knew himself, since he had a GRU command and no idea what to do with it, a crush on an american and an animalistic sadist with a taste for blondes for a commanding officer.

miller’s eyes are intense as they flick up, his face flushed, lips slick, and ocelot wants to destroy him, to pull him apart piece by piece until he begs because miller is strong, strong enough to last two weeks bleeding to death without breaking. he wants to be the one to do it. his fingers in the pale hair are a start, tugging, pulling, forcing the man to fight him to stay balanced on his knees, to be able to breathe around the cock in his mouth.

he tells himself it has nothing to do with the boss, and he believes himself, almost. knows the caveat is that he sees that glimmer under the bitterness and inability to let go, the glimmer that must have been what attracted big boss himself, burning like an ember and wants to feed it into a blaze.

“stop thinking,” comes the rough voice, words hot against his hip. “it’s not good for either of us.”

“i want to fuck you,” he says by way of reply, yanking miller forward, off him, face first gracelessly into the mattress, and before he can get more than a few syllables into the furious complaint ocelot flips him over, straddles him, is carefully careless with his spurs and feels the resistance on his heels from miller’s thighs. “or, more precisely, i want to ride you.”

“this is where i make some dumb joke about cowboys, right?” he’s not amused but he never is, not with ocelot, and that’s fine. miller is more honest when he’s angry, when he is wary, and the truth is a precious commodity here. “fine. it’s the easiest way.”

“you almost sound disappointed.”

“i don’t trust you not to start choking me, honestly.”

he lets out a laugh, gets up to get his pants off. “i thought you liked that.”

miller colours, coughs, fails to notice his own reflexive touch of his neck. “lethally.”

“i wouldn’t. you’re the only one who knows where all the money is.” and it is practically banter, or at least their version of it, but his want will not wait, and he climbs back on top with the filthiest smirk in his arsenal. miller is hard under him, hot through the twill of his pants, and he’s impatient enough that he only bothers to unbuckle and unzip and part the fabric with a single tug before he fits his hand around the other man and squeezes gently.

the sound is wonderful, a shuddering cry, and he wants to pull off the sunglasses to look at the reluctant, transgressive pleasure in the marred eyes. so he does, and when miller starts to protest ocelot just starts to move a hand in long strokes and lets the grip of the other one settle loosely over his throat, curls his fingertips into the space between collar and hot skin. he presses down. miller moans.

it would be so easy to make miller fall to pieces under his touch, and part of him wants it - the part that wants to rip and tear to get at the man inside, say to hell with it all with no care for the thought of ‘after’, and it might be the part where the bitterness hides and emerges from when he sees the boss looking at miller like he knows he has always looked at the boss. it is a part of him he does not like to touch, but it is always that much closer to the surface when he works.

to work on miller would be incredible, he thinks as he reaches for the nightstand. to write himself across the unique canvas. to be what finally shatters the pretense of right and just and moral.

the pale eyes are gazing up at him, following the movement of his hands, watching as he reaches under himself with slick fingers. hungry. impatient. distrustful, and then stunned. “are you -”

“i don’t need much.” his voice is a whisper now, his heartbeat in his throat. “i like it to hurt a little.”

the hand is on his thigh, squeezing, digging fingertips into the muscle, and the harsh scrape of fingernails is deliberate. “that won’t be a problem.”

he laughs a breathless, sly laugh and lifts himself, lowers himself, and feels all of the breath tear itself out of him in one slow stab of bliss.

it has been so _long_. his fingers are one thing but a person, living and breathing, a counterpoint to the pulse he feels in each fibre of his body, that’s something else. something exquisite, strong fingers curling into his hip like they could crush bone, the pressure forcing up greedy and insistent and selfish, so selfish. it does hurt but it’s the best sort of pain. visceral, bright.

he doesn't know if the soft curse is his own or miller’s when he starts to roll his hips, take what he wants. he could tip his head back, just lose himself, but instead he locks eyes with the other man, leans forward to set his palms either side of the blonde head and uses the leverage to push back, down, hard enough to make them both groan.

“you’re fucked up,” miller whispers, shakily. he looks torn between disgust and arousal. “you’re so fucked up and you _love it_.”

“we both are,” he responds, biting his own lip hard, aware of the clouded eyes watching it. “it’s not like you don’t -”

want this, he is going to say, but miller’s hips jerk up and the words die in his throat, forgotten when there’s a hand dragging him down by the wrist, the shoulder, his neck. then give it to me is the unspoken reply, and he obliges. this is what he wants, what he needs, the conflicting rhythm of thrusts up and his pushes down, the discordant jumble of sensation that drowns out the static and gives direction, purpose to the feeling.

miller kisses him, hard, all teeth and tongue and snarled promises of more, and this is something he cannot resist. “i want you,” he gasps, and he means it. it feels wrong, somehow. disloyal.

but true.

 

the feeling is of strangeness. everything is off-kilter. nothing feels quite right, and he thinks he knows why.

he remembers what it was like, growing up in slums, having to struggle to survive, and he hates that the kids make him think of it. hates that they were played into taking the job, hates the feeling of control slipping through his fingers every time and knows that he still resents snake for bringing them back.

they work on and off on emmerich. he doesn’t allow himself to be in the same room as ocelot after the questioning becomes interrogation - he doesn’t trust himself after last time. lapses in judgement on their parts, both of their parts, and it’s not that he feels guilty because his arrangement with snake has never involved monogamy but there’s something that he can’t place. it makes him uncomfortable, makes his skin crawl, and it’s not ocelot that disgusts him any more. it might be the thing between them, the insidious heat that flares and makes them stupid.

it affects his judgement, anyway, and that’s not something he can afford to have messed with these days.

he busies himself with overseeing construction work on the new quarters for the kids, making sure the books add up, reading up on the child psychology dossiers, keeping himself on an even keel. as much as he hates to admit it, snake’s gentleness helps soothe the fury that burns inside, guards against the intrusion of the thoughts. it’s not such an uncomfortable thing, any more, not when he knows he could murmur a word into the right ear to ask for what he needs, what makes him feel real, and know that it won’t mean anything.

this could be something good. he just doesn’t want to be the one to bring it up.

the knock on his door is soft, and he reflexively checks his watch. it’s too early for arrival at the AO in angola, so -

“commander, there’s something you need to see,” the intel staffer murmurs urgently, face solemn, hard copies of satellite images in-hand, “and none of us can find ocelot anywhere.”

“what?” he frowns, reaches out the hand for the papers, spreads them across the desk. “he’s on-base. when did anyone see him last?”

“canteen half an hour ago, sir. we’ve put out the call across all platforms, but there’s no contact back.”

“i want him found before the boss has boots on the ground. another half hour.”

“yes, sir.”

the images are of munoko ya nioka and the ngumba industrial zone, quietly stolen from the US, and the LZ is circled in red pen, further tiny annotations in the duty officer’s blunt handwriting. a single exclamation mark and an ‘O.’ to designate the areas that need further attention from their intel chief.

finding shabani is important for the kids, but they need to know what’s going on in the devil’s house, and if their suspicions are right it could led them to skull face.

now if only that fucker would answer the tannoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! sorry for the wait but dissertations are the worst. i'm hoping to have the next installment out by the middle of next week!

**Author's Note:**

> edit, july 14 2016: this work has been on hiatus for a long time, but i do intend to come back to it after a replay of mgsv. thanks for your patience, guys.


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